


It Rained Today

by Dryad



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Affection, Could be considered pre-slash but I don't think it is, Gen, Mortality, pg13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:43:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1896093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens in the field.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Rained Today

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luvsbitca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvsbitca/gifts).



> This fic is for Luvsbitca!

At Lewis' sharp glance, Hathaway shut his mouth and very quietly closed the door. He put the bottle of water on Lewis' desk, then retreated to his own, making sure the chair didn't squeal when he sat down.

"Yes, ma'am…yes…yes, of course. We'll meet you there. Ma'am," Lewis hung up the phone and covered his eyes with both hands, slowly releasing a heavy breath at the same time. A moment later he looked at Hathaway. "You've heard, then."

Hathaway nodded. "Our shout?"

"Aye," said Lewis, gathering his jacket off the back of his chair as he got to his feet. "Herself figured your experience would come in handy."

"Mm. First time for this, though."

"Hopefully the last."

Hathaway couldn't agree more. He followed Lewis out of their office, noted the subdued atmosphere in the building, the general malaise, the murmuring crowd by the coffee and tea machines. 

The rain had increased during the time he had run out to get their lunches, a task shortened as soon as the deli manager turned up the radio. What appetite he had had gone sour by the time he was headed back to the station. At least the water would keep them both hydrated if they weren't going to be eating soon.

"At least it's not a beautiful day," said Lewis, walking swiftly into the parking lot.

"There's no good day to deliver bad news," replied Hathaway. Although there were people who had been happy to get such news. In a different lifetime he might have been happy, too. But this, no. Never. 

An hour and a bit later they pulled up in front of two storey semi. The front was neat, the kind of tidy perfection Hathaway only ever saw in certain social classes who feared being seen as 'common' more than anything else in the world. Beyond the fleur-de-lys iron fence was a lawn mowed to within an millimetre of its life, rosebushes clipped into submission. On either side of the front door were single tree peonies with a few last, desultory pink petals hanging on despite the rain, and spears of crocosmia not yet showing buds.

Hathaway watched Lewis out of the corner of his eye while they waited for someone to answer the doorbell. He wasn't frowning, exactly, for once Hathaway didn't know the word for the expression on Lewis' face. There were always going to be bad news shout-outs, that was part of the job, you learned to deal with it or spent a lot of time drinking. This, though, was something else entirely.

The man who opened the door was as tall as Hathaway, but rounded in the shoulders. His hair was white, and he was neatly dressed in an navy vest, white button-down shirt, and khaki pants. Even his brown brogues gleamed. "Yes?"

Lewis showed his warrant card. "Sir, are you Dylan Johnston?"

The man's face blanched. He turned his head and shouted, "Deirdre!"

"I'm Detective Inspector Robert Lewis, this is Sergeant James Hathaway. May we come in?"

"Oh god, it's Faye, isn't it? She's _dead_ , isn't she - Deirdre - " 

Moving quickly, Hathaway caught Johnston before he collapsed in the hallway, supporting most of his weight as he pulled him further into the house. Ah, the living room. Cream leather suite, cream carpet, mirror, vase with dried flowers, tv, chrome tv stand, matching glass and chrome coffee table, leather coasters. A portrait of Faye in full kit on the wall, another photograph of the entire family including a brother and two other sisters, all of whom appeared to be older than Faye.

A woman brushed by Lewis, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. She glanced at them quickly before rushing to the couch. "Dylan? Dylan! Who _are_ you people?"

"Ma'am, Inspector Lewis, Sergeant Hathaway. Would y- "

Mrs. Johnston froze, then sat down hard on the couch, like a marionette with the strings suddenly cut. "She's dead. My Faye. It was on the news - police constable stabbed during an altercation."

Lewis flashed a look at Hathaway - altercation, not…exactly an untruth. Hathaway said, "Is there someone we can call, ma'am? A friend or neighbor?"

"Vivian, next door…" Mr. Johnston trailed off, staring sightlessly at nothing in particular that Hathaway could see. 

Lewis jerked his head and Hathaway left for the neighbor's. Though the notion to hop over the iron fence was powerful, Hathaway decided to take the long way. The front window curtain twitched as he started up the walk, the door opening before he had even reached the front step. 

A white woman in her early 40s came out, purse in hand, brows creased. "You from the Polis? Is it Faye?"

"Are you Vivian?"

"Aye, that's me, Vivian Callahan," she said, looking anxiously at him. 

"Can you spend some time with them?" asked Hathaway, following her lead and stepping over the fence.

"Oh god, of course. My dad was a copper, my brother too, my other brother's in Afghanistan," Vivian paused on the doorstep. "My granddad was killed during the Troubles."

Hathaway wasn't quite sure what to do with the litany of people and places, so he just nodded, touched her shoulder to keep her moving on. The sound of weeping did not fill his ears. If anything, there was outrage coming from the living room, and understandably so.

"You mean she _wasn't_ killed in the line of duty?" asked Faye's mother, shaking her head at Lewis. "They said on the radio there was an altercation! Oh Viv, it's Faye, she's gone!"

Lewis held up one placating hand, and Hathaway prepared himself for the worst.

"Ma'am, she was on duty. She was on her lunch break and stopped in at The Sandwich Shoppe. While she was standing in line she was attacked and died at the scene."

"Oh god," said Vivian, sitting next to Mr. Johnston and putting her arm around his shoulders. She looked between Lewis and Hathaway. "Who was it? Did you catch him?"

"We do have a suspect, yes."

Mrs. Johnston was nodding. "It was Craig, wasn't it."

Lewis had filled Hathaway in on the details while driving to the Johnston's. Craig Lake, 34, father of seven. An unemployed plumber, recent boyfriend of one PC Faye Johnston. He had been brought in, ranting about the fickleness of women and how no one was going to 'pass him by' again. Previous for GBH, several outstanding ASBOs - what on earth had Faye seen in the man? Hathaway knew her, of course, had used her several minor operations. She'd been a sweet kid, eager to please and move up the ranks.

"He is a person of interest in the matter," Lewis answered.

"Someone's got to call Nathanial and Anne," Mrs. Johnston announced. She clutched her knees. "We'll have to set up funeral arrangements. When will her body be released?"

Breaking his paralysis, Hathaway retrieved the card from his jacket and placed it on the coffee table. The white square of it looked obscene against the clear glass. "Someone from Family Liaison will contact you as soon as possible."

They took their leave minutes later. Lewis walked swiftly to the car, drumming his fingers on the top while Hathaway unlocked the doors. Hathaway opened his door, looked at Lewis, noted the rain still falling, though it had greatly eased. He leaned against the frame anyway. "What?"

Lewis shook his head, gestured minutely towards the Johnston's house. "It's not right, in there."

"I know," said Hathaway. "The family photo was a dead giveaway. Mother in back, Dad right next to Faye, the other three children buffering Mum from Dad."

"Faye was a nice girl," Lewis finally moved into the passenger seat. "Totally unsuited for the life of a copper."

"What makes you suitable? Sir," added Hathaway after a pause. He started the car, turned on the running lights as an added precaution against idiots who drove too fast in bad weather. "She was smart - "

Lewis made a noise of frustration. "Oh, you know what I mean. There are some people in this world who no matter how well meaning they are, can't take the life."

But sometimes you were born into the life. Sometimes things happened that made you go into the life, because you don't want them to happen to anyone else. Sometimes all you can do is hope to be there when someone decides to tell the truth, Hathaway didn't say. He'd wondered why Lewis had never asked him what had led him to the police - maybe Lewis knew he might not be able to tell the truth. Because he had, at one time, and his life had changed utterly afterwards. For the better, he was pretty SURE. Mostly. Anyway, he'd met Lewis, and SURELY that was worth everything that he had been through? 

~*~

The funeral service was very brief. Hathaway longed for something better. More suited to the occasion. The Johnstons were clearly not churchgoers, which was fine. Yet he felt…Faye deserved more that what she had got, in all ways, apparently. Of the siblings, only Nathaniel bothered to show up, and he looked - if anything, it was the lack of expression that clued Hathaway in to the family dynamic. Faye was the youngest, probably most favored child. Sibling rivalry was still fierce. A cold household, the mother all powerful - save for the affection and love expressed by her husband to the youngest child. Exactly the reverse of his own family. Sometimes he felt he was an afterthought, a mere happenstance of sex between Catholic parents. They played by the rules of the game and he was the burdensome result. Not unloved, precisely. More in the affectionate, 'oh right, you exist' sort of way.

"I'm parched," Lewis announced when they got back to the station. Instead of going to the office, Lewis headed towards the canteen, Hathaway following without thought. 

The canteen was flush with coppers returned from the funeral, milling about aimlessly, cups of coffee and tea and the odd can of Tango clasped tightly in their hands. Hathaway was hot, and he wondered if it was de rigeur to remain tightly buttoned up. Staying close to the door while Lewis rummaged in the cooler, he took the opportunity to glance around. Ah, yes. Markel was pulling at his collar, and the hair at Greenfield's nape was dark with sweat. He hoped they would be allowed to change soon - he didn't fancy spending the rest of the day in full kit. The attention he received when so dressed was distracting. And embarrasing. Lewis was always pleased for him, which made it worse.

Ah, the ubiquitous bottle of orange. Watching Lewis pat his pockets, then frown, Hathaway pushed off the wall and made his way to the till. "I've got it," he said, pulling two quid from his jacket pocket.

Lewis stared at him in disbelief. "Seriously?"

"You know what I like," he intoned, handing the change to the lunch lady. Her eyes were wide and wondered if he'd made a mistake. Too late to do anything about it now.

Shaking his head, Lewis led the way out. "I put something in these pockets and you can practically see what religion I am."

Hathaway blinked. He was torn between ignoring the actual words Lewis had just used, and making a smart comment about them. As they started up the stairs he realized he was going to have to save it for later, for the moment was gone. It was time to work on the other cases that needed their attention, the murders and rapes and assaults. 

Hours passed in paperwork, phone calls, internet searches. When it was time to go home, Lewis went straight to Hathaway's car. Not about to question it, Hathaway said nothing. 

A few minutes passed before Lewis, staring out the passenger window, said, "Come to mine, tonight?" 

Not even the pretext of a case to look over, and that suited Hathaway fine. A temporary break with someone who understood, exactly what he needed. With the added benefit of keeping an eye on Lewis - and Lewis returning the favor. He didn't often feel the urge to protect Lewis from some unnameable danger, and yet. Faye had been in a line, in a shop, surrounded by people, and her bastard of a boyfriend had stabbed her in the neck where she wasn't protected by the safety vest. Plenty would call it an unlucky strike. Hathaway knew better. The neck was prime site selection. Lake's goal was to hurt Faye, and he had succeeded.

"James?"

The light had turned, and Hathaway pressed too hard on the gas pedal, so that they jerked forward a little. "Sorry," he muttered at Lewis' exasperated glare. "Should I bring dinner?"

"How about something simple, beans on toast? A fry-up?"

Hathaway glanced at Lewis, aghast. "We are not having beans on toast. I'll cook, you'll eat."

Lewis smiled faintly and Hathaway knew he had been had. 

Well, that was all right. They could both use a little companionship, see each other through Faye's funeral. See the whole nick through Faye's funeral. It wouldn't be the first and it certainly wasn't going to be the last, though God willing they wouldn't have to attend a funeral for the other. 

No.

Hathaway made a mental note to attend Mass. He would - he would ask for God's forgiveness in begging for such a favor. It wasn't right, God's will above all, yet he couldn't bear the thought of Lewis in the ground by himself. It was not to be contemplated.

"I can hear the wheel spinning in your head," Lewis tapped Hathaway on the arm as he drove into the station's parking lot.

"Just the one wheel?"

"It's a big one."

Unfortunately Hathaway had no rejoinder, which was exactly what Lewis was aiming at. Hathaway could tell by the smirk.

"Come on, let's get our day done."

"Lead on, MacDuff," answered Hathaway. There was nothing he could do about Faye Johnston any more. He would light the candles and go make dinner at Lewis', bring a bottle of wine and maybe fall asleep on the couch. And in the morning, he would go home and shower and change and remember to breathe the fresh air and remind himself that he was still alive, as was Lewis, and that the day always began anew.


End file.
